


Forged in Fire

by stophookingatmeswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bladesmith AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 20:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stophookingatmeswan/pseuds/stophookingatmeswan
Summary: Master bladesmith Killian "Hook" Jones meets Emma Swan, a highly talented diamond in the rough in the forging community. Her talent and grit impress him, and his loyalty and faith in her abilities draw her in. A Captain Swan Bladesmithing AU.





	Forged in Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSSChestHair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSSChestHair/gifts).



She took everything the show threw at her. 

Forging her signature blade – a mirror-shined bowie with an antler handle – out of reclaimed lawnmower blades. 

The producer who seemed to want nothing more than to test the mettle of the rare female contestant and added the canister Damascus angle to the first round – a feat not only for the amateur home forge bladesmith, but some professionals as well.  

A tough final challenge that had the semi-finalists returning to their home forges with five days to return with a weapon worthy of a win. 

And this was all under the umbrella of a male-dominated profession. To hear the vast majority of her fellow smithers tell it, women were rarely up to the task. The working conditions were too hard, the women too physically weak to hammer out their steel. 

When they were backstage during the meet and greet before filming started, he knew in a split second she was tough as nails. Chin held high, back ramrod-straight, arms strong, and a schooled expression that had just a hint of “fuck you” thrown in for good measure. He could tell she was used to glances and whispers, probably as much for her looks as for her chosen profession, or maybe a bit of both since she was beautiful; lithe and blonde with high cheekbones and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. 

Her three male counterparts all but confirmed his suspicions as they huddled together talking quietly amongst themselves, their interest in her as a specimen coming through loud and clear as their eyes raked over her body. When one caught his eye and winked conspiratorially, inviting them into their douchebag fraternity, he looked back at the man with a steely gaze. 

He had a reputation as a hardass to live up to after all, plus he didn’t give a damn what was between a bladesmith’s legs as long as they produced quality work. And she did. 

He wasn’t surprised in the least and could barely contain his glee when the grandstanding 15-year veteran whose braggadocio was only overshadowed by his tragically obvious desire to impress the woman as they worked was the first to be sent home. Forging offered no room for distractions, even pretty blonde ones. 

The wasn’t surprised when the bowie made it through all three strength and cutting tests with ease. 

He wasn’t surprised when she made it to the final round or when she came back for the final judgment with a stunning moro kris, a sword identified by its wavy blade. 

The crossguard was intricate, a mix of steel and brass that she had shaped into curves and points the likes of which he had never seen. The handle had the same mix of metals and was contoured for grip; the pommel shaped into a ring and featured a blood-red jewel. As beautiful as all of that was, the blade itself was the crowning achievement in his eyes. It was beautifully waved and lethally pointed, the etching intricate and skillful two-thirds of the way to the crossguard and then polished to a flawless finish. 

He knew from watching the footage that her time at home hadn’t gone perfectly; the original form she’d hammered out by hand cracking during the quenching process. She’d lost a day, her calm veneer slipping as she let fly a string of epithets the editors would have to bleep out. But her grit and determination had paid off, and as he sat on his stool with the panel of judges and the show’s host, he couldn’t help but smile as she was named _Forged in Fire_ champion, taking home a prize of $10,000 she said would be invested into her workshop at home. 

Her cheeks had blushed prettily at the judges’ raucous applause, but her handshakes were firm as she moved down the judges’ table, thanking them. He’d kept his expression neutral when fingers sporting the same perma-dirt and callouses as his own wrapped around his hand, but his mind was going a mile a minute. 

He was intrigued. He was drawn to her. He had a plan.

 

* * *

 

“I can help you become a Master.”

He kicked himself for skipping the speech he’d prepared in his head, blurting it out far more loudly than he’d intended when she startled, almost hitting her head on the raised hatch as she threw her gear into the meager space a vintage yellow Bug offered. He glanced around the parking lot before turning his back on the few people still milling about and trying to keep an earnestness he hadn’t felt in years off his face. 

Before he could open his mouth to rephrase his offer, she swerved him, making his back arch as he avoided getting smacked in the face with her ponytail. 

“Why.” 

It was more a dismissal than a question and his eyebrows shot up at how brusque she sounded, although he shouldn’t have been surprised given everything he’d observed in the last week. His interpretation was solidified when she swung open the drivers door and unceremoniously plopped down into the seat, pulling both legs in and slamming the heavy door closed. 

Stepping back and wishing for a portal to another realm to open up underneath him, he waited for her to drive off. Instead, she cranked down the window and held her hand out to him palm side up and almost cracked a smile when he dumbly delivered a low five. 

“No, give me your phone.” 

Fumbling out of his pocket and unlocking it, he handed it to her and watched silently as she opened his contacts and put in her number. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk when he saw her type in the name “Swan” and dropped before she handed it back, not that she was even looking at him. 

She turned over the engine, the giveaway trilling of the Bug’s engine overshadowed by what sounded like an exhaust leak. Before she pulled out, she let her eyes meet his. 

“Don’t call me if you’re not serious,” she said and he nodded, knowing she meant it.

 

* * *

 

Emma was hot. She was sweaty. She knew she was more than a little smudged with soot from head to toe and her signature tank top was more gray than white, but the deadline for a multi-knife order loomed and she couldn’t afford to give even half a shit about how she looked. And she couldn’t afford the time it would take to answer the incessant knocking outside her workshop, but whoever was out there was as stubborn as she. 

Kicking the heavy wooden door open with more force than necessary, it almost hit the person standing outside and she was ready to apologize until she saw who it was. 

Killian “Hook” Jones. 

Master bladesmith. _Forged in Fire_ judge. And the person she was 99.99% certain she’d been ignoring for two months if the missed calls and number of voicemails she’d deleted from an unknown number was any indication. 

“You wound me, Swan. Or tried to anyway.” 

His chin was jutted out in exaggerated affront, hand drawn to his chest dramatically as he danced backwards nimbly out of the path of the swinging door. 

She scowled; irritated at the time he was costing her. Even more irritating was that deep down she knew she’d all but invited him to seek her out by ignoring his calls. Emma squashed that thought and briefly considered reaching out and swinging the door closed in his face, but her mouth got the better of her as she waved a hand at his legs. 

“Not in your Sunday best?” 

She leaned against the doorway as he looked down at his clothes, a confused look on his face. The black V-neck tee shirt and scuffed boots were familiar, but he was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans instead of his usual kilt. Emma could see the wheels turning for a moment before his tongue slipped into his cheek, an eyebrow went up and he took a few steps toward her with hips in the lead, his tone unexpectedly teasing. 

“I didn’t notice you’d noticed, Swan.” 

_Shit._

Of course she’d noticed. Anyone with eyeballs and a speck of good taste could see he was attractive. Incredibly and unsettlingly so with dark hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, lean muscles and a shit-eating grin he was currently throwing her way. But she didn’t have time for flirting, so she turned her back instead. 

Leaving him standing outside, she threw a flippant, “Everybody notices when a lady doesn’t know how to keep her knees together in a skirt” over her shoulder and went back to the task at hand, picking up the knife she’d been sharpening on the grinder, running a thumb along the edge.

_Almost there._

She flipped the grinder on and began to run the blade over the belt trying to get her bearings straight in her own fucking space. 

When he said her name, it was a husky with a hint of supplication and entirely too close to her ear for her comfort even though she knew the proximity was necessary with all of the noise. What wasn’t necessary – but, annoyingly, not entirely unwelcome – was the brush of his arm against hers as he reached into her workspace and turned the grinder off. 

Emma was used to people giving up on her. She was too much of a lone wolf, too prickly, too surrounded by walls and safeguards to be worth anyone’s while. It was all she knew and again, she found herself suppressing a little swell of emotion at his perseverance and got pissed instead.

“Why are you here, Hook?” 

With one clenched fist and the other hand ripping off her safety glasses, she turned around expecting to be toe to toe with him. He’d already moved away, perhaps expecting a fight, and was leaning against the table where the majority of the knife order she was working on was laid out. One of the blades was in his hand and he inspected it critically as he answered. 

“I love a challenge.” 

The answer was short, cheeky and sincere, but the distraction of a master bladesmith – _this_ master bladesmith in particular – turning a practiced eye toward her work took away any piss and vinegar she had. 

He wasn’t just one of the best. He was _the_ best both before and after a horrific forge accident had taken his left hand. Now, along with blades of all sizes, shapes and historical significance, Killian Jones designed and produced tools and accessories to help disabled blacksmiths continue to work. 

The pirate-like prosthetic that had given him his moniker, however - a shiny, curved hook he wore attached to a brace – was all for show. 

A hook he was currently running down the length of the knife he held. 

Less confident bladesmiths would cringe; worried their blade might be damaged with such a move. Emma didn’t blink at the first pass, nor did she avert her gaze when his eyes met hers as he made a second and began a series of rapid-fire questions. 

“How many layers?” 

“Three.” 

“Welded?” 

“Folded Damascus.”

“Material?” 

“Chromium, carbon and manganese.” 

“Not stainless?” His eyebrow raised and Emma shrugged. “For kitchen cutlery?” 

“It’s a repeat client. A sashimi chef more concerned with holding an edge than standing up to household wear and tear.” 

“Do you have a lot of repeat clients?” He held the knife closer, examining the edge and squinting when he got near the handle, undoubtedly looking at the abstract swan she etched into all of her blades. 

“To add to a collection? Yes. To replace something I’ve made? No.”

The pride couldn’t have stayed out of Emma’s voice if she tried.

Jones put the knife down and looked around her workshop. As he laid eyes on her various stations, his brow furrowed. 

“I thought you were putting the money into your forge?” 

That took the pride down a few notches and Emma’s fingers twitched, itching to go back to her grinding and drown out the reality hanging in the air. 

“Something came up.” 

She picked up a sweat rag and mopped the back of her neck for something to do and slipped it along with both of her hands into her back pockets in an attempt to look casual and hoped he’d drop it. 

 _Nice wish._  

“What came up?” 

Stifling the urge to shout, “None of your fucking business!” Emma snapped back at him. 

“Life. Life happened. Not that you’d know anything about that.” 

Once the vehemently untrue words were out of her mouth, she clapped a filthy hand over her mouth as his eyes narrowed and he held up his hook. 

“No, love. Nothing at all.” 

He waved away her bumbling apology and walked toward the door, talking over his shoulder. 

“When did you join the ABS?” 

Emma had joined the American Bladesmithing Society two years before, dues paid early each December as if it had a bearing on legitimizing her place. 

He nodded when she told him the length of time she’d been a member, leaving out the other details, and he turned to face her, playing with the scruff on his chin as he mulled that over. 

“So in a year, you’re a Journeyman.” 

“If I pass the test,” Emma reminded him, feet propelling her in his direction as she suddenly became more at ease with a career trajectory than she’d only dared to dream of before. 

He waved his hand dismissively. 

“When you pass, Swan.”

His jaw clenched a few times before he spoke again. 

“I can teach you techniques to help you work faster and some experimentation I could use a second pair of eyes and a hand on. My forge has every piece of equipment under the sun that would make you work faster as you hone your skills and signature styles. You have more knowledge and instinct than most bladesmiths, but being a woman puts you at a disadvantage.” He held up his hand as Emma began to protest. “I didn’t mean it like that. You have to work twice as hard for half the credit and even then you’re fighting an uphill battle. Your work as it is should command attention and respect but, frankly, this profession is filled with assholes.” 

He paused, seemingly more for effect than to see if she’d disagree and grinned when she said nothing. 

“You could be a Master bladesmith, Swan. And not because you’re one of the best women I’ve seen. You’re one of the best bladesmiths I’ve come across, period. There are only 200 Masters in the world and you could be right up there with them. You just need a foot in the door instead of almost putting one through it.” 

His thumb jerked to the sooty boot print she’d made when answering his knock and handed her a pristine white card she held by the edges to avoid smudging. Emma could feel his eyes on her as she looked at it, taking in his first and last name in a neat, almost militaristic font that was dead center and split by a graphic of a swirling silver hook. There was a phone number in the lower right corner. 

“The ball is in your court, Swan. If you want to study under me, call that number by the end of the week.” 

She watched as he walked away, letting herself appreciate the curves of his ass. Emma didn’t have time for flirting and certainly didn’t have time to bang anything that wasn’t an actual piece of steel, but a girl could let her mind wander for a minute. She made sure the workshop door was firmly shut before he reached his truck, lest he catch her looking and went back to her grinding, tamping down her baser instincts in favor of concentrating on the work at hand and the offer he’d left on the table.


End file.
